


For all the pages thumbed

by Raehimura



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: After the Mountain Breakup, Angst with a Happy Ending, Diary/Journal, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Fix-It, Geralt Apologizes, Geralt Misses Jaskier, Geralt can do art, Geralt draws doodles of Roach, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, In Between Talking About His Deep Witcher Feelings, Letters, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Witchers Have Feelings (The Witcher)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:27:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24341314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raehimura/pseuds/Raehimura
Summary: After the mountain, after he walks away, Geralt buys a little red journal on a whim. What starts as a place to dump his turmoiled thoughts turns into a daily habit of writing about his hunts, his life. But when he finally faces the fact that it's Jaskier he's been writing to all this time, what other realizations will it inspire? And is it too late to matter?* * *Fuck you, Jaskier.Maybe that wasn’t the best place to start ...
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 45
Kudos: 807





	For all the pages thumbed

Geralt had bought it on a whim. Really, he had. 

He’d seen the little journal tucked among pelts and herbs at the trader’s table on the outskirts of Novigrad, and his fingers had strayed to it without a thought. It was finely bound, with thick cream paper. He had bought it and a thick bundle of Moleyarrow for a Crown.

The crimson, scaled leather of its cover was a coincidence, really. It certainly had nothing to do with the outfit Jaskier had been wearing during the dragon hunt. The last time he’d seen him. Four months ago.

Geralt hadn’t really had a purpose in mind when he’d bought the journal. He already had the old, thick weight of his Bestiary to carry around. What did he need more paper for? So he’d settled the bright little book in one of Roach’s saddlebags and went on his way, determined to ignore any potential sentimentality and live with the purchase until he found a use for it.

He’d like to say he’d already forgotten about the thing, but it hadn’t really strayed from the back of his mind when, a week later, he found himself sitting at yet another campfire in some dark corner of the Continent, with nothing but Roach and the distant howls of wolves for company.

That was the Path. He couldn’t count how many nights he’d spent just like it. It had been that way since he’d finished his training and first set out to kill monsters. It was the only life he’d ever known. For decades it had been, if not a comfort, then at least familiar, settling over him like well broken-in armor.

Until Posada. Until the bard. Until a human invited himself into Geralt’s life and refused to be ignored or insulted or scared away.

The twenty years they’d known each other was barely a chapter in a life as long as Geralt’s, and they had only traveled together off and on during that time. But somehow, through forests and feasts, the damn fool bard had left his fingerprints on all the solitary edges and settled in. And Geralt, somehow, had let himself get used to it.

The silence was palpable now, when it had only been habit before. He felt the empty space beside him at the fire like a physical presence. When had he allowed himself to grow used to company?

It had been months, and yet still at least once a day Geralt found himself turning to say something to a companion that wasn’t there.

It was one such moment that started it all, when Geralt looked up from the fire and for the briefest of moments expected to see the Bard sprawled out beside him. A sudden impulse had him grabbing the scarlet journal and his dip pen, sitting back at the fire and scratching a message in a stark scrawl.

_Fuck you, Jaskier._

Maybe that wasn’t the best place to start, but this wasn’t a letter. These words weren’t for Jaskier to read. Geralt wasn’t sure exactly what the words were for, but it felt damn good to get them out of his head, to scratch them into the world so they stopped pressing at the back of his mind with a bruising weight.

_This, like everything else, is all your fault. You did this to me._

Words did not come easily to him, but this felt different somehow, just his hands and the paper and the black marks mapping his thoughts. Making them real. A confessional, without the ugly need for letting the sounds past his lips.

_I travelled alone for decades before I met you. That’s what a Witcher does. When I allowed you to join me, that wasn’t meant to change. But then you kept showing up and before I knew it, twenty years had passed, frequented by your company. And now I’m_ ~~ _unhappy_ ~~ _unsettled. Uncomfortable. Like I’ve been bent into a different shape, and it no longer fits into the old grooves of this life._

_I should be relieved, to no longer be responsible for your safety. To no longer have to keep you from the danger you seem drawn to like a magnet. To no longer have to take your delicate humanity into account. It’s certainly less trouble this way. But I’m not relieved, and I’m not content, and it is your fault._

The fire was dying down when he finished inscribing the words, and though he could still see them perfectly, the shadows cast the page in a stark, dramatic light. Shaking his head at his foolishness, Geralt buried the journal back into the bottom of his saddlebag before the ink had even dried.

He only made it two days before he dug it back out, sat beside a river where he’d cleaned the blood from his face and hands, driven by that same strange compulsion to add words with more truth.

_It may be your fault that I notice your absence, but the absence itself is mine. I know that. Knew it as soon as I finished yelling. I was so angry at so many things, but none of them were you, not really. I didn’t mean it, any of it. Yes, you have often gotten us both into trouble, but everything that came after was my choice. My actions. Yennefer, the djinn, the Child Surprise. I made my choices, and whether it was they or Destiny that screwed me, it wasn’t your fault._

_I don’t like how things ended. I regret that those may be the last words you hear me say. But it’s better for us both that things did end. You will be safer, and I will remember that the Path is walked alone._

_You, at least, will have your songs._

Something eased in him after that, and he put the journal out of his mind for a week, turning his mind back to the road and the hunt. It was only after he killed a particularly nasty Alghoul in what had been an admittedly close call that he picked it up again. He couldn’t shake the thought that Jaskier would have enjoyed hearing about it, couldn’t stop wondering how the bard would have embellished the details for a song. As much to quiet his mind as anything, he scribbled down a terse description of the fight.

_Killed an alghoul today. Close call. Had to trick it with a Sign to get in a good shot. Nearly lost a hand._

Why had he wanted to write that? He’d never kept a record of his hunts before. And it wasn’t like anyone else would ever read it. So why did it feel so much like talking to Jaskier?

Even the simple sound of the pen scratching against paper reminded him of the bard, always scribbling down lyrics. More than once Geralt had awoken in the middle of the night to find Jaskier working feverishly, and he’d fallen back asleep to the sound of the pen.

Geralt didn’t bother burying the journal to the bottom of his saddlebags this time. He had a feeling it wouldn’t stay packed long. And sure enough, a few nights later he was sitting beside the fire dutifully recording his most recent hunt for an imaginary audience he still refused to name.

Without meaning to, or really thinking about it, he developed a habit.

_You’d have liked this one. Noonwraith, tragic romance. It would make a serviceable ballad, until the part where I had to burn down half a small village to kill it._

_Killed a cockatrice today. Reminded me of the time you helped me strip that cockatrice in Velen of its feathers. You complained the whole time, but your work was skilled enough, and the coin kept us in fine accommodations for a week._

_Found a super nest of drowners in an old swamp. Took nearly 10 hours to kill them all. Had to climb out of a ring of bodies in the end. Went through an entire pack of potions. I’ll be feeling it for days._ ~~ _I wish_ ~~ _I imagine you’d make a fuss if you were here._

_Have you ever seen an ice troll? Hulking thing, covered in ice, even stronger than their rocky brethren and twice as vicious. I don’t know what this one was doing so far down the mountain, but it’s a shame it could not be reasoned with._

He added a sketch to that one, on a whim, just a few harsh lines to capture the shape of a creature he couldn’t describe with words. Words weren’t his thing, after all. And once he drew the first little sketch, he found himself adding them randomly between entries. Sometimes it was the claws or snarling face of a lesser known monster, but mostly it was little things he saw on his travels: an interesting herb, a scrappy dog stealing a loaf of bread from the market, various views of Roach’s mane or hooves or face. A songbird.

He drew a surprisingly decent portrait of Vesemir one chilly night when thoughts of Kaer Morhen gathered heavy like snow. He even tried one of Jaskier, a warmly remembered image of him strumming his lute on a calm night years past. But it remained only half-finished. He found he couldn’t capture him, not really, and it only left him colder.

Weeks from when he’d first bought the little red book, writing or drawing in it had become a daily ritual. Just one more thing he did, like picking herbs for potions and brushing down Roach.

He would lean against a tree in a spot of sun while Roach grazed nearby or stretch out in front of his campfire and add some thoughts or a random sketch. And then one day he had just finished jotting down a story about a drunken brawl in some anonymous tavern that he’d narrowly avoided getting dragged into, when he realized that somewhere along the way he’d started adding details that had nothing to do with his hunts.

He’d just been writing about his day, about his life, insignificant details he can’t imagine anyone would care about. There was no point to any of this, there never had been. But somehow, the little stolen moments with the notebook had become something he looked forward to each day.

That revelation forced Geralt to face another: It was Jaskier he’d been writing to all this time. Maybe not with the thought that he’d ever read it, but in his mind, it was Jaskier these notes had been addressed to. Sharing more about his thoughts and his days than he did even when they traveled together.

So he put the journal away for a day, and he stewed, and he took out his frustration on a pack of rabid dogs. And then he opened the journal again the next evening and allowed himself to address the next note properly.

_Jaskier, I heard a bard play a few nights ago at a local inn. You would have had much to say about the ridiculous purple outfit he was wearing, but he played well enough. Nothing original though. And certainly nothing about Witchers._

It still took another week before he could bring himself to add a proper apology. The one that had been forming on his lips since Jaskier first turned and walked back down the mountain alone.

_Jaskier. My friend. I am sorry. I wish I could tell you how much I regret those words. I wish I could take them back. Not only was I wrong to blame you for my own choices, but I see now that I was wrong to think I’d be better off traveling without you._ ~~ _I think_~~ _~~I suppose~~_ _I miss you. You added something to my travels that I hadn’t know it was possible for me to have. And now I’ve fucked up, and it’s likely too large and too late to fix it._

Geralt let the line trail off as he wondered: Had Jaskier already moved on? Most likely. He had a habit of landing on his feet, and there’s only so long someone could mourn Geralt’s company. Jaskier was likely moonlighting as some Countess’s lover already. Or maybe he found a position as a court bard, swaddled in silks and free-flowing wine, with a captive audience appreciating his every performance. As he should be.

_I guess that’s only fitting for a Witcher. It was only a matter of time. After all, we’re no good at playing human. I just hope you’ve found a better place for yourself, a life more fitting for your talents than following a mutant around killing monsters, trying to spin guts-covered straw into stories of heroics. And maybe, though I likely don’t deserve it, you won’t remember me too harshly in the end._

Geralt closed the little book with a heavy sigh. This sort of wistfulness was unlike him. 

He knew his place in the world. He may not believe in Destiny, but he was a Witcher, and that was his lot in life. He knew what that entailed. What he could and couldn’t have. There was no sense in lingering on this regret, or writing these unsendable letters to someone who surely had no interest in hearing from him.

Still, it was with careful hands that he nestled the journal into its place in his pack before turning in for the night. And maybe it was all that time thinking of the bard’s new life, or maybe just finally putting his regret into words, but that night as he sprawled on his bedroll in a dark wood, Geralt dreamed of Jaskier.

They were sitting near the fire, as they had so many nights over the years, enjoying the silence accentuated by Jaskier’s lazy strumming. Jaskier was more a presence than anything, a warm feeling like the glow of the fire. Geralt was relaxed, almost dozing, and the dream might have faded back into blackness except suddenly Jaskier was there, in his lap, arms wrapped around his neck and snuggling closer.

Geralt returned the embrace like it was natural, like they’d done this before. And it was nice: a solid weight around him, an affectionate embrace. Geralt held him firmly, pulled him closer, and Jaskier nuzzled playfully at his neck with an echo of low laughter. The warmth between them grew, and without anything really changing, it sparked into a blazing heat.

Geralt woke with a gasp, the half-remembered sensation of Jaskier’s lips on his neck, and a painful hard-on. 

He took care of himself quickly, his mind carefully blank, and as he lay there catching his breath, he wondered. He wasn’t shocked, exactly. He was certainly no sheltered maiden, and he’d seen that Jaskier was attractive when they first met. He’d filed it away as another fact about the man, like his age and his profession and his annoying tendency to follow Geralt despite the warning signs. 

He’d also seen the dilated pupils and increased breathing that indicated the bard’s own attraction. But plenty of humans were attracted to Geralt, whether they’d admit it or not. It didn’t mean they wanted to act on it. Jaskier, though he occasionally bedded men, was a notorious womanizer. And as far as Geralt could tell, he’d never expressed any interest in him besides the occasional flirting that was just his way — practically a language all his own, and impossible to snap out of even in the worst situations.

Besides, the Bard had quickly become his companion, one that he might even privately admit was a friend. He appreciated his easy touches, the simple attentiveness when he helped wash Geralt’s hair. Anything more would only complicate matters needlessly. Geralt had simply never thought about him in a sexual way. Or had he never let himself?

Almost without thinking about it, Geralt brought out the journal and started writing.

_I dreamed of you. It wasn’t the first time, of course, we’ve traveled together long enough. But this time was … different. Intimate._

_I can almost see the glee on your face, but it’s not what you’re imagining. I’ve had dreams like that before, as has any man. This was so much softer. It was …_

Geralt searched for an appropriate description, reaching despite his discomfort to understand this the way Jaskier might, through words.

_Comfortable. It was comfortable. Easy. As if we’d been together in that way the whole time we’d known each other. As if it was normal for us to reach for each other. And though we did little more than embrace, it was very_

He paused, then minded every letter.

_arousing._

How strange, to find himself embarrassed. He’d never been particularly shy about sex. It was just a part of life. But putting the sensation into words, writing them down in such a permanent way, even knowing no one else would read them … It was a challenge.

But maybe helpful too. So he was attracted to Jaskier. More than he’d realized. He couldn’t bring himself to mourn the missed potential, not when things ended exactly as they were always going to. He’d either saved himself the embarrassment of rejection or saved them both the added complication when they parted ways.

And if something in his chest sat heavier with the thought of what he might have had, even briefly, then so be it.

_Even now, I think you’d be gratified to know I think of you like this. That I want you. Perhaps even more so now that any opportunity to have you has passed. It’s the kind of poetic justice you always liked._

_No, forgive me, even when angry I’ve never known you to be cruel. It would seem that’s my flaw. But it’s in the past now, despite the poor timing of my dreams. And Witchers can’t afford to dwell._

The reward from his most recent hunt was generous enough to cover a room with some left over, and he happened to be near a decent sized town, so Geralt spent the afternoon with a perfectly satisfying working woman from the brothel and then settled down for a well-deserved drink that had everything to do with his difficult hunt and nothing to do with the needling dissatisfaction in his gut.

He was on his second ale, just starting to feel his shoulders drop, when a young blonde woman in a blindingly bright yellow dress hopped up onto the corner of the bar and started strumming a lute. Perfect. A bard. Exactly what he wanted to see tonight.

Geralt ignored her as she introduced herself and her song, contemplating just finishing his drink and heading to bed early, but he was brought up short when he heard the first, familiar notes she played.

When she opened her mouth and started singing, he knew he was screwed.

“Around your house, now white from frost, sparkles ice on pond and marsh, your longing eyes grieve what is lost, but naught can change this parting harsh …”

One of Jaskier’s ballads. Among the more famous, if he wasn’t mistaken. He’d heard him sing it in plenty of taverns, idly hum it was they walked dirt roads, had even been there when he finished composing one of the verses. Even when sung in another’s voice, it was Jaskier through and through.

So Geralt stayed and let the familiar melody wash over him. A song about loss and regret. Words so familiar his teeth ached, and he could almost hear Jaskier in every syllable, as if he were the one in front of him.

There was a strange echo in his chest, a pang of loss that shuddered through him, and his fingers shook just slightly where they clasped his ale.

What was this? This feeling, it was not mere attraction. It went beyond regret at losing a friend. He _hurt_ , to his core, like a wet bruise across the sinew of his chest. It almost felt like …

Fuck.

He loved him. He loved him, and it was too late.

That was enough to push him up from his chair and back to his little room. The rapt patrons thankfully paid him no mind. He paced beside the simple bed, his skin tight, his mind a jumble of incomprehensible thoughts. His eyes fell to the red journal on the floor where he’d left it earlier, and he scooped it up, no longer surprised at how easily the words flowed.

_I heard one of your songs tonight. I know your works are popular, but somehow I’m still always surprised when I find someone else performing them. You’ll be happy to know she did the ballad justice, though I’m sure the original version is better._

_None of this is what I want to write about. I wish you were here, even if you’d insist on talking this out. Maybe you’d help me make sense of this. It’s more your area of expertise, after all. Feelings. Love._

_Ah, there it is. Somewhere along the way, without even realizing, I fell in love with you._

_How could I not know? It seems the sort of thing even a Witcher would notice when it happened. But this feels entirely different from anything I’ve felt before. I’ve cared for others, but mostly in passing. The other Witchers are like family, and of course I_ ~~ _love_~~ ~~_loved_~~ _love Yennefer. But this is so different. Loving you is comfortable. Easy. Safe._

_Which is ridiculous, because you wander into trouble like you were born for it, and it’s not like you could do much to protect me. Or maybe you can, maybe you have, in ways that have nothing to do with a sword._

Geralt’s head was beginning to hurt as much as his chest, puzzling through these tangled feelings. Give him a Striga to fight any day. But in the end, he knew it all came down to a few simple facts.

_I care for you. You made my life better in ways I’m only now beginning to appreciate. I was a blind fool, and I should have done more to keep you in my life while I had to chance. You matter, and I wish I’d had a chance to tell you._

That was it. He’d lost the only two people he’d ever loved in one fell swoop, and it was no one’s fault but his own. They really didn’t build Witchers for feeling.

And maybe that was the lesson that Destiny, in all her cruelty, had been trying to teach him: The people he cared about were better off without him. Better off without the monster pretending to be human.

He went without sleep that night, falling into an uneasy meditation until dawn. Though he’d be perfectly content to get on the road and leave this town behind him, Geralt had taken a small contract nearby, so he settled for the distraction of a hunt. He gathered his gear and set out while the town was still asleep.

It turned out that the supposed evil spirit haunting the outskirts of town and attacking livestock was nothing more than a lone ghoul. Barely a distraction. Geralt had lured it out and dispatched the creature before the sun had even reached its high point. He was back at the inn with his fee in hand before late afternoon.

If only it had been a more complicated hunt, or if he’d skipped the contract altogether and left town that morning, he wouldn’t have found himself striding through the doors just in time to see a familiar face taking a bow to a smattering of applause.

Jaskier was here.

Geralt felt himself move on instinct, blending into a back corner of the large room even as he watched Jaskier set his lute aside and find a seat at the bar. What was he doing here? Of all the inns in all the villages across the Continent, he had to find his way to this one? Geralt really needed to have a strong talk with Destiny one of these days.

Surely, Jaskier wouldn’t want to speak with him, but Geralt found he couldn’t just leave either. So he sat at a corner table and watched him. A few people came up to the bard with coin or a friendly handshake, likely congratulating him for the performance he’d just finished. Unsurprisingly, a pretty young barmaid spent a few minutes talking quite close to him with a hand on his arm. Jaskier smiled and spoke with each of them, but also clearly brushed them off, and after a few minutes he was alone with his drink.

Geralt had never known Jaskier to forgo company, friendly or flirtatious or whatever was on offer. Even the coldest crowds would eventually warm up under his generous application of charm, and he often spent hours after a performance chatting and drinking and flirting with the patrons who flocked to him. Yet here he was, turning away perfectly pleasant company, who seemed quite taken with his talents, just to sit and drink alone.

As the minutes passed and Jaskier settled into the solitude, and into his drink, Geralt watched the default contented expression wane from his soft face. His bright eyes dulled, his mischievous lips turned down at the corners, his brows pinched in a way that almost made him look his age. It didn’t take Witcher senses to see that he was miserable.

Geralt’s heart lurched, a physical sensation of revolt in his chest. Had he been wrong to assume Jaskier had moved on? Was he mourning their companionship as much as Geralt? A part of him decried the bard as foolish for it, but a much larger, traitorous part of him was already standing and moving toward him.

Maybe it was more hubris to assume Jaskier’s mood was about him at all, but just the thought, just the chance that there was something left to salvage, something he could soothe. It was enough. 

Jaskier caught sight of him when he was halfway across the room, and the way the bard’s face paled did not bode well. Geralt tried to put on his least stern, least threatening face, but he’d seen the results enough times in the past to know that wasn’t saying much.

“Ah, Geralt,” Jaskier began, his forced airy voice not managing to cover his tension or the way his eyes darted to the door. “What a surprise to see you here. Rest assured, it’s entirely coincidence that brings us to the same place.”

Geralt was a little busy staring at the bard, drinking in the familiar sight with fresh eyes. But he managed to croak out a raspy, “Jaskier."

Said bard waved him off with a confident, casual gesture, but his eyes were fixed firmly over Geralt's shoulder when he continued. “Don’t worry, I don't plan to stay. I wouldn't want to bring you any more bad luck. You’ll be rid of me again as soon as I finish my drink.”

It was dismissive. Jovial, with just a hint of bite. It would be entirely convincing if Jaskier’s face didn't look one second from crumbling the entire time he spoke.

With that, Jaskier turned back to his drink, and something in Geralt snapped. He had no idea what he could say, what he should say, or if there was even anything to say after the things he’d already said. 

All he knew was that he wanted, desperately, to keep him. Even if just for a few minutes more.

So he grabbed his shoulder with a broad hand, too firm in his urgency, and demanded, “I need to talk to you. Privately.”

Jaskier frowned, leaning back with a jolt, and for perhaps the first time between them, Geralt smelled the faintest acrid hint of fear. It was enough to send him reeling back a step, hands up in an aborted placating gesture, and though the roiling pit in his stomach screamed to _just leave him alone_ , he found himself asking, “Please?”

Jaskier’s face was frosty, but after a moment, he relented and tilted his head, that foppish wave of hair falling just so, like always. “Alright, Witcher. Lead the way.”

The walk up to his room was silent and tense, Jaskier following behind him like a prisoner on the way to the gallows. Geralt questioned for the hundredth time if he was making a mistake, a new one on top of so many others, but he had to try to say something of what that he’d learned since they’d parted. Selfish or not, he couldn’t live with himself if he wasted the opportunity.

He lost no time once the door to his room was closed behind them, even as Jaskier paced to the far side and stood there with his arms crossed. 

“Jaskier, I’m sor-”

“Stop,” Jaskier commanded, and Geralt did. The bard’s voice was dim. “I don’t want to hear it, Geralt. There’s no point.”

Jaskier sighed, heavy, and finally met Geralt’s eyes. “We both know what you said was the truth. We were never really friends. You made that clear enough. Anything else was just a bard spinning tales.”

He laughed, darkly, with a flippant gesture at himself. “It’s what I’m good at, after all. But the fantasy is over. There’s no point trying to smooth things over just because you regret the harshness of your honesty. I intend to honor your wishes and stay out of your life. Nothing else needs to be said.”

There were many things Geralt could say, should say, to that. But most importantly, he needed to get that note of bleak surrender out of the bard’s voice. It wasn’t like him.

“You’re wrong,” he said, voice low but firm, and not nearly as gentle as he’d like. “I was angry, and I lied. I didn’t mean it. Any of it.”

“Didn’t mean it?” Jaskier exploded, lethal grey resignation dissipating in an instant. His hands flew wildly as he set to pacing, radiating incredulous anger. “You didn’t mean it? You were pretty damn clear about where we stood Geralt!”

Jaskier paced the length of the room as Geralt watched silently, then pushed his hands erratically through his hair, took a steadying breath, and turned to face Geralt with a broken edge in his voice. 

“Please, this is hard enough. Realizing what a fool I’ve been making of myself, trailing behind you for twenty fucking years only to be tolerated at best.”

Jaskier wrapped his arms around his own middle, as if he might build a wall between them, or just shrink away from this conversation entirely, but there was no hesitation in him when he continued. 

"Do you have any idea what it’s been like these last months? How hard it’s been, getting over this? How deeply your words cut?” His voice broke at the end, but he pushed on, lifting his chin and staring down at Geralt with challenge in his eyes. Eyes, he realized, that were red-rimmed and cloudy. “I mean, gods, have you even noticed my absence? Have you even thought of me once since we parted?"

Geralt stared at him, breathless at the sight of unshed tears in the bard’s blue eyes, and he knew exactly what he needed to do. Stalking over to his packs, he rummaged in one for a moment, before turning back to Jaskier and saying, carefully, as honest as he knew how:

“Did I think of you? I never stopped.”

Before Jaskier could react, Geralt pressed the small red journal into his hands and ordered gently, “Read it.”

Maybe it was the surprise at the strange turn in the conversation, or maybe it was just that it’s hard to resist an order from a Witcher, but Jaskier took the book without a word and opened to the first page. He scoffed, predictably, at the first words, but he sat heavily on the edge of the inn bed and kept reading.

It was strange, awful in fact, waiting there while Jaskier read those private words. But Geralt thought, maybe, without understanding it himself, that this is what he’d been writing them for. A gift of words, the hardest thing for Geralt to give, to prove that his apology was genuine. To show that Jaskier was worth working for.

So he settled down on the floor a little way from Jaskier, falling into a light meditation, and stayed there while he read and read and read.

Jaskier consumed the whole thing in silence, giving nothing away except the changing rhythms of his heartbeat, the hitch in his breath when he read certain lines, and barely managing to stay under his meditative state, Geralt wondered wildly what words brought those small reactions. And what it could mean.

Finally, Jaskier sat up and closed the journal, staring down at its scarlet dragon-scale cover with the same neutral expression. The silence hung heavy around Geralt as he sat, head bowed, and awaited his sentence. If he were a human, his heart would be racing. As it was, he breathed and waited and hoped.

“Geralt you … you’re quite the artist,” Jaskier finally said, with a laugh that sounded a little like a sob, and Geralt was so startled that he looked up and smiled despite his worry.

Jaskier sniffled quietly, and when he looked up his eyes were red with more tears, but his serious expression was hard to parse. “Do you mean it? Are you sure?”

“I do,” Geralt assured him immediately, forming his next words carefully. “I am. I don’t expect you to feel the same. I don’t even expect you to forgive me. But I need you to know the truth.”

“You idiot,” Jaskier said wetly, and then he was sliding off the bed to crash to his knees in front of Geralt, and Geralt was rising to his knees to meet him, half concern and half wild hope.

“I can’t believe it took you so long,” Jaskier accused, laughter and tears mixing in his voice, as he reached unsteadily for the straps on Geralt’s chest. “I can’t believe you said all that to me, and now you confess your love.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” Geralt rumbled, still not entirely sure what was happening but bringing his hands up to hold Jaskier’s waist instinctively as he leaned closer.

“You are not done apologizing to me,” Jaskier said archly, but the brilliant smile kind of ruined the effect, and the sight made Geralt ache acutely all over again, just for the fucking sake of it apparently. Emotions. “But I love you too. I have for a long time. And I want to be in your life if you’re sure about wanting me there.”

“I’m sure,” Geralt promised, wrapping his arms around Jaskier as he fell into his chest and daring to press a kiss to his mop of soft hair when Jaskier turned his face into his neck. Warm.

Geralt’s stomach dropped when he felt the tears against his skin, knowing that for all they were mostly happiness and relief, some small part of them was grief that he had caused. But with Jaskier a real weight against his chest, his skilled hands absently strumming the straps on his chest and clutching him tightly in turns, finding handholds no one else had ever been able to, it was easier to believe he might be given the chance to soothe that hurt.

And when Jaskier eventually leaned back to cup an impossibly soft hand to Geralt’s cheek and pull him in for a kiss, Geralt dared to believe he might even be able to keep this.

They made it to the bed after a while, for nothing more strenuous than holding each other, talking occasionally, and kissing as often as they liked. There would be plenty of time for more.

It was the next morning when Geralt remembered the little red journal. When he picked it up, he noticed a new entry had been added, in a suspiciously fine hand, entitled “Ways I Intend to Make It Up to Jaskier:” He couldn’t help but snort and glance at Jaskier still sprawled on both sides of the bed. And though the list would go on to see several indulgent additions over the coming weeks, all of which Geralt would gladly carry out, it was the entry he added himself, right at the top, that he most cherished fulfilling every day.

_1\. I will never let him forget that he is loved._


End file.
